What I Get Out of the High Holy Days

By Susan Esther Barnes

This post was inspired by a comment by “CA” on a post called Another Aish Video Insults Our Intelligence on Dov Bear’s blog.

CA, like many other people, has some trouble with some of the High Holy Day themes. He compares God during this time to Santa Claus. Presumably, this is because Santa, in theory, gives coal to the bad boys and girls, and only brings good stuff to the good ones. Similarly, Jewish tradition says that the High Holy days is the time when God writes our names in either the Book of Life or the Book of Death for the coming year, and that our actions can influence which book God will choose for us.

“Naughty or Nice,” he says, “you get what's coming to you.” That’s the theory, anyway, but as CA observes, “Unfortunately, this bears no relation to reality…The undeniable fact is that sooner or later the big G-guy is going to write everyone for the book of Death.”

Because of this, as well as long services and “pompous rabbinical sermons,” CA doesn’t like the High Holy Days. “About the only thing I like is the food,” he says. Which strikes me as odd, since Yom Kippur is a day of fasting, but I’m sure he must be talking about the Rosh Hashanah food, and anyway, that’s beside the point.

I really can’t argue with CA when s/he points out that no matter how good we are, we’re all going to die. Not only that, but every year there are people who die even though they seem to be living a reasonably righteous life, and others continue to live even though have done some pretty nasty stuff.

Although the whole Books of Life and Death thing is part of the High Holy Days, it’s only a part. If that part makes you uncomfortable, fine. There is still plenty more to the Days of Awe than that, and the fact that you don’t like one part doesn’t mean you should write off the whole thing.

In fact, the High Holy Days start out with Kol Nidre, which means “All vows.” It starts out with us being forgiven for any vows we made (or are going to make, depending on which interpretation you follow), which we are unable to keep. A holiday that starts out with forgiveness can’t be all that bad, right?

Later, we ask God for forgiveness for a list of stuff we have done wrong and, presumably, we receive God’s forgiveness. That sounds good to me, too.

It’s not all automatic, though. We are reminded that God forgives us for sins against God, but for sins against another person, God forgives us only if we have made peace with that person. I like this part, too. It encourages us to ask for forgiveness from those we have wronged, and to forgive those who have wronged us.

CA says, “I don't see why I need forgiveness from God if I do something wrong, and why I should wait until one time a year. If I hurt someone, I prefer to apologize right away and clear the air quickly.” The good news for CA is, there nothing in the liturgy that says we need to wait. I agree that whenever someone’s feelings are hurt, the best thing is to make peace as soon as possible.

What the High Holy Days provide, however, is an opportunity to reflect on the past year, and to ask ourselves, “Have I made peace with everyone I need to, or do I still have some baggage lying around to which I need to attend?” It also gives us a deadline. The holidays remind us we don’t have forever to make peace. We may die next year, or even sooner. The time to make peace, the holidays remind us, is now.

I also happen to like the High Holy Day music, and I’m lucky enough to be a member of a synagogue in which the sermons are, as a general rule, thoughtful and moving. The services are long, but I’m never bored; in fact, I enjoy them. Plus, I find the long services help to distract me from my hunger during the Yom Kippur fast.

So although I don’t believe who lives and dies in a given year is based on a Divine moral judgment, I find I get a lot out of the High Holy Days every year. I hope that CA, and others of a similar mindset, will put aside the parts s/he doesn’t like, and will instead focus on the parts of the holidays that have the opportunity to provide him/her with a sense of meaning.

Yom Kippur 2010/5771

By Susan Esther Barnes

Blogger Dov Bear posted a recap of five different kinds of Kol Nidre (Yom Kippur Eve) services he has attended in the past, and invited others to write about their Kol Nidre experiences. I wrote about one of my experiences from previous years (since it was not yet Kol Nidre this year).

Then he posted about his most recent Yom Kippur experience, and several of us posted about ours.

My previous post was about my Kol Nidre experience this year. Below is my Yom Kippur experience, somewhat modified from what I posted on Dov Bear’s blog.


9:30 am: Services start at both the synagogue and the local Civic Center auditorium, since our congregation is way too large to fit into the synagogue all at once. I choose to attend the synagogue service, which is mostly run by lay people (Senior Rabbi and Cantor, with choir, are at the auditorium).

I greet people at the front door until I can’t see anyone else approaching from the parking areas. I walk in and find a seat, but Marc comes over to get me, saying he and his wife have saved a seat for me. This is so cool. Usually I don’t like to sit alone for services, but sometimes it’s hard to find a spot next to someone else who’s sitting alone when I come in late from greeting.

Morning service is incredibly moving. Many of us are crying by the end. Highlights include confessions written anonymously by congregants, and beautiful music. Service is over around 12:30.

From 12:30 to 1:30 I greet those coming to children's services, and direct them regarding where to go with kids under 7 vs. where to go with kids 7 and over. There is a worker from the JCC who is standing nearby drinking a soda, which I find a bit rude since the rest of us are fasting, but I assume he's not Jewish and probably has no idea.

Frankly, I’m not being the world’s best greeter, because I’m still emotional from the morning service, and Donna comes over, notices, and doesn’t let me get away with “I’m fine.” What a mensch! So I get a chance to talk again about Rose, and how it’s hard being at the first Yom Kippur without her. On a regular Shabbat some part of my mind can pretend she just didn’t make it to synagogue this week, but on Yom Kippur it’s obvious she is missing, and I am missing her.

Around 2 I head over to the Civic Center for the 2:30 discussion with Rabbi Kahn. There are good number of people there. As his topic he chooses the Park 51 project. I am deeply disappointed by the number of congregants who speak out against the project, or who feel conflicted about it. It seems so clear to me that it’s wrong to say a whole religion should be banned from building something near where a handful of extremists did something horrible.

I gather from Rabbi Kahn’s remarks that he'd say I feel this way because I identify myself as a member of a minority group, which I do. I find it unfathomable that we don’t all, as Jews, recognize that we are a minority group, and that we need to stand up for the rights of other minority groups. I know it doesn’t help that there are Muslims who are virulently anti-semetic, but that doesn’t give us an excuse to be Islamophobic. This discussion does not contribute to the feelings of Sabbath peace and wholeness I want to experience on Shabbat.

I leave early and walk back to the synagogue for Yizkor at 3:30. Another Yizkor service is also happening at the Civic Center at the same time. I’m a bit disappointed that the service is not more participatory. One congregant reads aloud what was probably a lovely bit of prose, but in several places it mentions food, and I’m distracted. The fast has been easy for me so far, but I still don’t want to be reminded about food.

The synagogue service ends a little early so we can all walk together over to the Civic Center for N'eila and Havdalah. The plan was for all of us to walk into the Civic Center singing together, but somehow that didn’t pan out. I find a seat on the right side in the front section, and sit next to a couple of congregants I see on a regular basis.

I enjoy the service, until near the very end, when the rabbis read a long selection in English. I don’t remember them doing that before. We’re all standing up, my feet hurt, I’m starting to get a headache, and I find myself wanting them to just move along already. I don’t feel hungry, but I’m certainly getting grumpy. Dan Nichols makes up for it by singing, “May I Suggest,” and I sing along with him.

Immediately after Havdalah we have the break-the-fast. I don't get in line for food. Instead, I head to the doors and direct people to where the tables and chairs are outside where they can sit and eat. It's still light outside. I continue to direct people and chat until the sun goes down.

I call my husband, and he meets me at a local Mexican restaurant. This is our tradition because I love Mexican food, plus they give you a bowl of chips and salsa right when you sit down, so you don't have to wait to eat something. I indulge myself by ordering the nachos for dinner (no meat of course).

Sunday morning I get up early and go to the synagogue to help build the large sukkah in the back and the small sukkah in the front. I enjoy hanging out with the guys. This year, as last year, I am the only woman there. I think the guys are starting to catch on that they don’t need to treat me differently just because I’m female. At least I hope they are.

Once again, I’m reminded how much I love this community, and how much I feel I belong here.

Kol Nidre 2010/5771

By Susan Esther Barnes

Blogger Dov Bear posted a recap of five different kinds of Kol Nidre (Yom Kippur Eve) services he has attended in the past, and invited others to write about their Kol Nidre experiences. I wrote about one of my experiences from previous years, since it was not yet Kol Nidre this year.

Then he posted about his most recent Yom Kippur experience, and several of us posted about ours.

I thought I’d add my Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur experiences from this year here as well. Kol Nidre is in this post, and Yom Kippur is in the next one.

5:30 pm Final meal before Kol Nidre: I have French toast and milk for dinner. This is my version of carbo loading for the fast ahead (no food or drink from sunset on Friday night until three stars are in the sky on Saturday evening).

This is the second year Nita is offering High Holiday services. Nita is a project of our synagogue, reaching out to unaffiliated Jews in the county. I have been hearing rave reviews about Nita all year, but have stayed away from their services because I know they’re trying to build their own community and I don’t want to get in the way of that.

When I went online to buy the Nita “Lift Kit,” which includes tickets to the Nita High Holiday services, I was simply intending to make a donation, however in the week prior to Kol Nidre I decide to be selfish this year and check out the Nita Kol Nidre service.

I am wearing all white, the traditional color we wear on Yom Kippur, because it is the color we wear when we are buried. I am also wearing white canvas sneakers and no belt because we don’t wear leather, which is considered to be a luxury, on Yom Kippur. Orthodox men wear a kittel, the Jewish burial garments. Rabbis Noa and Michael also wear them on Yom Kippur.

6:30 pm: I arrive about a half an hour before services. Almost nobody else has arrived yet. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself, and I figure there’s no reason not to greet, which is what I’d normally do if I were at services on my “home turf.” Jane, the Development Director, asks me to help direct people to the sign-in table.

I notice a number of familiar faces, members of the synagogue, who have also chosen to attend this service instead of the “regular” one at the Civic Center. Noa’s parents also attend, and her Mom gives me a hug. I’m flattered that she recognizes me. Most of the people, however, I’ve never seen before. Many of them have kids with them.

Around 7 pm services start, and I feel torn. I came here because I was hoping to engage in a more intimate experience than I would have at the Civic Center, and I want to go in and start to get into the mood being created in there. But there are people still arriving, and I want them to feel welcome when they walk in. Helping the unaffiliated to feel like there is something for them here is important. I continue to greet until the trickle of late arrivals peters out.

I walk in, and there are few available seats left. The only ones that look viable are a group of five or so in the very back, in the middle, with no other chairs around them. I sit in one of them, but I feel isolated from everyone else. I move my chair to the right side, so I’m sitting behind someone I know. Eventually a family comes in and moves the rest of the isolated chairs next to me, and they sit down. I’m glad to feel less like I’m sitting there alone.

Noa gives a fabulous sermon that starts by her talking about the Container Store and moves on to talking about how we contain ourselves, and somehow ties in a story about a man named Yosi who Elijah finds praying in a ruin and why Elijah tells Yosi he shouldn’t pray in a ruin but should pray by the road, even if it means he may be interrupted.

She explains about how we should not pray in places of despair but should pray in the real world with all its messiness. I’m always impressed by how a good rabbi can pull in all these seemingly disparate things and make it seem obvious in hindsight how they all go together. I suppose that’s the kind of thing you learn to do when you start to get an understanding of the one-ness of it all.

I enjoy the rest of the service. I’m surprised how much of it is in Hebrew. I had imagined there might be more English, in an attempt to not intimidate folks who rarely attend services. I don’t end up with nearly as intimate a feeling as I expected; not nearly as intimate a feeling as I felt on Rosh Hashanah morning at the synagogue sanctuary service, where there were more people, but also more people that I know.

I realize that even though the Nita service is a good place to be, it is not my place. My place is at the synagogue, with the community I have joined there. I am grateful to have a place that is so good that even a place as good as Nita cannot transcend it for me.

After the service, I rush to the doors to say goodnight and Shabbat Shalom to people as they leave. Usually after synagogue services, a good number of people stay to chat, but many people leave right away, and I want to get to the doors first. I find myself standing there alone for some time. Everyone else is still inside the room where the services were, talking with each other. I feel great. It means there is a community there, in that room, and Nita is doing what it set out to do.

The Purpose of Prayer

By Susan Esther Barnes

Ever since blogger Dov Bear posted about faith healing, I’ve been thinking about the purpose of prayer. I find it interesting that he chose to focus on the power, or lack thereof, of petitionary prayer, since asking God for things isn’t the main purpose of Jewish prayer.

I’m no linguist, but it is my understanding that words for prayer in several languages, such as Latin and English, have the same root as words for asking for things. For example, “pray,” “ask,” and “beg” in English can be used more or less interchangeably, albeit with different connotations.

According to the website Judaism 101, the Hebrew word for prayer, t’filah, comes from the same root as the word meaning “to judge oneself.” This root implies the purpose of Jewish prayer is not petitionary - to ask God for stuff - but to look at ourselves. The idea is to think about what we’re grateful for, what we wish we could change, how we’re presenting ourselves to the world around us.

As anyone who studies Judaism will discover, we Jews have a lot of prayers already written for us. This includes not only what we read in the prayer books during services, but prayers for all sorts of other occasions as well. There are specific prayers we’re supposed to say when we wake up in the morning, when we leave on a long trip, when we see a rainbow, when we see someone we haven’t seen in a long time, when we learn of a person’s death. There’s even a prayer for when we use the restroom (It’s called “Asher Yatzar” if you want to look it up).

Most of these prayers do not ask God for anything. Instead, they focus our attention on things like our gratitude, our covenant with God, and the complexities of our body.

Certainly, there are times when we do ask God for things. Every week at services I say the names of my father and my friend Mark when the time comes for the prayer for healing.

Even then, there are certain rules we follow. We are not allowed to ask God to change what already is. A common example is if a man is returning to his village and he sees smoke rising from it, he is not to pray, “Please don’t let it be my house that is on fire.” This is because whatever is causing the smoke is already on fire. It is futile to pray to God to suddenly move the fire from one house to another.

When I say the healing prayer I don’t pray for my father to not have diabetes or for my friend to not have cancer. I don’t even pray for God to cure them, since I don’t think such prayers would be realistic. Instead, I pray for the symptoms to be more bearable, for God to give them strength and comfort while they cope with their condition, for them to be given the opportunity to enjoy their lives, for them to know others love them.

Sometimes my prayers change based on what’s going on in my life. Until recently, every time we sang “Hashkivenu” and asked God to spread a shelter of peace over us, I pictured a shelter of peace spreading from me and others in the congregation to cover those among us who were in mourning or otherwise in pain or in need of support. In the days after Rose died, I changed the direction to picture the shelter of peace coming from others nearby to cover me. One could argue this makes the prayer less about asking for something than it is about assessing my state of mind.

We are now approaching the High Holy Days, the time when we are asked to look over the past year, to judge our actions, and to apologize for our sins. It is only appropriate for us to spend some time now to remind ourselves that our word for prayer is not about asking for things, but is about judging ourselves. What better time than now to pray?

Confessions and Forgiveness

By Susan Esther Barnes

Because our congregation is so large, we have two services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. One is at the local Civic Center auditorium, and the other is in the sanctuary at the synagogue.

It has become the custom at the sanctuary service on Rosh Hashanah for congregants to write down, anonymously, things they have done about which they feel guilty. A selection of these confessions is read aloud by other congregants ten days later at the sanctuary service on the morning of Yom Kippur.

This is a particularly moving, and sometimes brutal, part of the service. It is heartrending to hear of members of one’s community berating themselves for feelings which are only natural, or confessing to alcoholism, or blaming themselves for being molested as a child.

I can’t say I’m immune. Sometimes I catch myself beating myself up for things which, intellectually, I know are not my fault. This public reading of confessions on Yom Kippur certainly places my petty self-grievances in stark contrast to those that deeply matter.

It also reminds me that even though we might feel it’s appropriate sometimes to say, “There is nothing you need to be forgiven for,” there is great importance and power in transcending logic and engaging in an annual time for us all to hear, simply, “You are forgiven.”

Last Night's Silent Prayer

By Susan Esther Barnes

Last night was the evening of Rosh Hashanah. As I stood on the steps greeting my fellow congregants, I marveled at the number of faces I knew.

Once I was seated inside, I looked around the room. I remembered how, three years ago on this day, I sat in a room full of complete strangers, and felt so alone. I remembered how, two years ago on this day, I stood at the microphone in front of about 1,500 people and told them how alone I had felt, what I had done to change that, and how good it felt to no longer be alone. I thought about how good it felt this year to be among so many friendly faces, to be part of a community where I feel safe, where I feel loved, where I feel I belong.

In every service, there is a time for silent prayer. Sometimes I use the time to talk with God in words. Sometimes I use the time to talk with God in images or feelings. Sometimes I use the time just to listen. Last night, something completely new happened.

Last night, during the time for silent prayer, the only words I was capable of conjuring in my mind were, "Thank you." The words repeated in my head, over and over, as if of their own volition. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you." And each time the words repeated, a new image from the past year formed in my head. "Thank you," and I pictured a time when a woman held my hand. "Thank you," and I saw people bussing tables after a Sulchan Shabbat dinner. "Thank you," and I saw us gathered in a congregant's home one Friday night, singing together.

The words repeated and the images came, one after the other, all these experiences and all these people I did not have in my life three years ago, but who are now an integral part of my life. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," the words and the images came, one after the other, effortlessly and seemingly without end, until Fred began to sing "Osey shalom" and the moment passed.

The List

By Susan Esther Barnes

Tonight is the evening of Rosh Hashanah. This is the time when we seek forgiveness from God for our transgressions over the past year. We also seek forgiveness from each other, because God forgives us for our transgressions against God, but for our transgressions against other people God does not forgive us until we make peace with one another.

Around this time in the year 2000, I was living in Nevada and talking on the phone with my best friend John in California. For the first time, I explained to him what happens this time of year, and I asked him if there were any transgressions for which I needed to seek forgiveness from him. To my surprise, he was able to come up with a list of items. Perhaps it should not have been a surprise. After all, this was the first time we had engaged in this discussion, but we had known each other for 15 years.

As John went through his list one item at a time, I listened, we discussed it, I apologized, he forgave me, and then he insisted that I tell him my list. I don’t think I was able to come up with much, but we discussed what I had, and I forgave him. It was a bonding experience. At the end of the discussion, he asked, “Explain to me again, why aren’t we dating each other?” I was at a loss. We began dating, and in January we will celebrate our 7th wedding anniversary.

As in all relationships, from time to time, things come up. We say something snippy; we don’t pay enough attention when we should; we do any number of things that hurt the other’s feelings. Whenever these things happen in our relationship, John and I immediately talk it out and seek the other's forgiveness. In these cases, it is rare for one of us not to say, “Are you sure we’re okay now? When Rosh Hashanah comes, I don’t want this to be on The List.”

Thus, The List, and our desire to be sure there is nothing on it, marks our days and focuses our intention regarding how we want to interact with each other. The last thing we want to have happen is to reach Rosh Hashanah and to find out the other has been harboring some hurt that has been festering over the past weeks or months. Instead, the threat of The List helps to ensure that we solve issues in the moment, as they arise. It reminds us that openness and honesty, as well as the willingness to broach uncomfortable topics, is one of the pillars on which our relationship is built.

Now, when Rosh Hashanah approaches and we sit down to discuss The List, it is empty. Once we confirm its lack of items, we take some time to talk about our relationship and our appreciation of each other. It is always a good beginning for the promise of a sweet and happy new year.

L’shana tova.

Repentance

I'm not a poet, but here's something I wrote last year, less than two weeks after my husband was hospitalized for a couple of days with an infection in the sack surrounding his heart. It was a scary time, and about a month before Rosh Hashanah, so I was feeling a bit dramatic.

Repentance
By Susan Esther Barnes

On Rosh Hashanah it is written, on Yom Kippur it is sealed
Who shall live and who shall die

Each year I fear death will come
Before Rosh Hashanah
When I sit down to ask you
Is there anything I have said or done
In the past year
That has hurt you
I say the words and hang over an abyss
I fear the valley of the shadow of death
How could I have hurt you
So much worse
To have hurt you and not even notice
But how can I breathe if I have hurt you
And not only have I not noticed
But have committed a far greater sin
By not providing a safe place
For you earlier
To tell me what I have done
And instead allowed it to root in your soul
To fester there

If somehow I live through it
It is for this I shall repent

After S'lichot

Last night I attended a beautiful S'lichot service. If the blowing of the shofar during the month of Elul has not yet prepared us for the High Holy Days, S'lichot, which occurs on the Saturday evening before Rosh Hashanah, is meant to give us a good shove in the right direction.

The High Holy Days, also known as the Days of Awe, are usually my favorite time of the year. I enjoy the majesty of the services, the music, the drawing together of Jews all over the world. For me, it is normally a time of forgiveness, in which I strive to forgive myself and others. It is a time of renewal and a time for hope.

Somehow, this year is different.

Although I rarely have nightmares, last night I dreamt of torture. Not torture for the sake of eliciting information, but torture with the goal of keeping the vicitms alive so they could suffer as much and as long as possible.

Then I dreamt I was with friends on an island utterly unfamiliar to me. I joyfully explored the island, until I turned to look for my friends and found they were departing on the last transportation out, leaving me alone, lost, confused.

Why are my thoughts turning to these images at this time of year? Is it because, as we approach the day when our names will be written in the Book of Life or the Book of Death for the coming year, I reflect on this past year, when for the first time in a long, long time, people I know have died? Is it because I see the rise of anti-semitism in Europe and elsewhere, and it frightens me? Is it because I see the Jewish people fighting amongst ourselves about Israel and about which Jewish denominations are superior to the others, and I know it's this kind of in-fighting that contributed to the destruction of the ancient Temple in Jerusalem?

To what extent is my inaction responsible for the things that are troubling me? Perhaps this year I need to seek forgiveness not for the things I have done, but for the things I have not done.